


A Devereux Never Forgets

by Jaygrl22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American Sign Language, Angst, Be Careful What You Wish For, Deaf Character, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, Major Original Character(s), OC, Original Character-centric, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Wizarding France, Wizarding Royalty (Harry Potter), Wizarding World of the United States of America, ahhhh, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaygrl22/pseuds/Jaygrl22
Summary: When Audrey Devereux and her sister Esme haphazardly transfer to Hogwarts mid-term, her already upheaved, not-so-fairytale life spirals into a full-blown cautionary tale of getting what you want. Can this Franco-American witch strike a balance between dualities and extremes? Or will she forever be caught in the crossfire of her many clashing worlds?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: harry potter oc





	A Devereux Never Forgets

This whole thing started with a letter. Well, no. Actually, it started with a picture.

Like all magical photographs, the picture had no color, only various shades of grey. If you judged it by the clothes and outlandish décor, it’s completely reasonable to assume you’re looking at a European ball from the 1800s, back when aristocracies were still a thing. In reality, the picture was only taken back in 1980 — when I was barely a year old.

In it, you can see my father. He was a handsome man with a roguish smile. His curly hair was styled back in a way that helped to accentuate his sharp features. Next to him was my mother. She was a gentle beauty. Her dark hair was tied in an intricate knot with loose strands framing her soft cheeks. The light shines from her eyes in a way I’ve never seen.

Their robes were sophisticated and covered with intricate designs. The space around them featured a grand, elegant ballroom filled with Old Money hacks puttering around them. To my younger eyes though, it simply looked like a page out of a fairytale. And, looking at it from our cramped, one-bedroom apartment over the shop, it felt just as unreal, too.

But grounding this impossible fiction, were the two tiny children they held. The one in my father’s arms fussed and squirmed, earning both my parents’ attention from time to time to help settle her down. The one on my mother’s hip quietly watched the scene before getting moved to Mama’s other side, then smiled and reached for something out of frame.

When I first found this picture, buried deep in the dregs of my mother’s belongings as we packed moving boxes, I knew very little about my real father. My mother had only ever told me three things about him: he was a good man, he died in the war, and his name was Alphonse. When I showed her the picture, begging to know more, she could only stare at it. Her lip quivered and her eyes shown, but she did not cry.

If my mother had truly lived a lavished life draped in finery, she showed no signs of it in my childhood. She was a hardened working-class woman who never let her daughters waste or take things for granted. If clothing could be mended, it was; if something could be repurposed or bought second-hand, it was. To see her so vibrantly carefree and young, dripping in jewels, was nothing short of surreal.

Eventually, she handed back the picture and told me I could keep it. She promised to tell me more when she was ready.

I waited three years. She was never ready.

In those three years, I studied that picture day and night. I watched my parents’ figures steal loving glances and bounce babies in their arms so much it repeated in my sleep. I considered every angle of their faces and attire until every inch of them could be conjured with eyes closed.

I knew every detail of that picture better than I knew the details of my own face. But the only thing my mother could tell me in those three years was that she was holding me, and that my father was holding my sister. And since Esme had _always_ been a wild child, it was easy to believe.

But here’s the thing… The babies in the photo are the same size. Esme and I are incredibly close in age, yes, but we’ve got a year between us. She should have been smaller. The babies also have the same colored hair and eyes. Esme’s hair and eyes were _always_ darker shades of grey than mine in Maj pictures. The most damning thing, though, was our mother.

The way she was holding me and the cut of her robes made it hard to tell, but there was a particular moment when she shifted me from one hip to the other where you could see the outline of her belly. Esme thought I was crazy but if you squinted just the right way, it almost looked like a baby bump.

I did not ask my mother about it outright. Even at ten, I understood that that was a no-go. Instead, I showed her the picture and, like always, waited. When she silently handed it back, as she always did, I asked the safest question I could.

“Where was this at, Mama?”

“Our home in France.”

My mind could hardly fathom that sentence. Our _home?_ The room seemed so large and grand! The closest comparison I had was Champlain Hall at the hotel where Papa – my stepfather – worked. The idea that we had a home like _that_ , somewhere in _France_ , when our family lived in such a small house in America… It was hard to believe.

“Where did we live in France?”

“In the north. Near the sea. But, please, Audrey. No more questions. I’ll tell you—”

“When you’re ready, I know.” But I had waited too long for her to be ready. I was ready _now_. I was ready _years_ ago _._ And now I had a lead.

 _That’s_ what led to the letter.

* * *

_Dear Mme. & M. Devereux, _

_I’m sure you’re very busy people, but I was hoping you could tell me about the people in the picture I’m sending you. The man is my father. His name was Alphonse and the lady next to him is my Mama. Her name is Ophelia. She said the baby she’s holding is me and the one my father is holding is my little sister, but that doesn’t seem right to me for a lot of reasons._

_I can’t ask Mama about it though. She doesn’t like to talk about my father. She gets too sad. So I started showing it to French Maj at the Palais hotel to see if anyone there recognized him. That’s how I met the man giving you this letter._

_He’s the one who said my parents looked like your eldest son, whose name he was pretty sure was also Alphonse, and his wife. He said all of your children were killed near the end of the Wizarding War, which is when my father died too. He’s pretty convinced I’m your granddaughter and insisted on delivering my letter to you personally. It seems like a stretch to me, but he also said your family knows everyone in France, so even if he’s not your son you might know who he is anyway._

_If you did know my father, I would love to know everything you can tell me about him. If you didn’t, I’m very sorry for bothering you. Either way, please write back as soon as you can, and please send back my picture. Thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Audrey Simard_

* * *

The picture was important— _paramountly_ important to starting this journey, but it was the letter that changed my life _._ It set fire to everything and taught me just how powerful lies can be.

Most of my life, I’d only dealt with well-meaning, harmless white lies. Things like when your stepdad says, _“If you don’t wait half an hour you’ll sink and drown_ ,” or, _“We’re almost there,”_ on a long trip while traveling No-Maj style. Adults tell us these things to keep us safe, themselves sane, and the world running smoothly. These lies are, by nature, forgivable and forgettable.

Other times, people don’t even realize they’re lying to you. When your No-Maj schoolteachers say, _“Be kind to others and they’ll be kind to you,”_ and, _“We don’t tolerate bullying here,”_ they aren’t trying to deceive to you. Most even seem to believe what they’re saying. The lie isn’t intentional, but what they say still inevitably turns out to be untrue.

It’s sort of similar to how adults only tell you part of the truth to make things seem better than they are. For instance, when you start Maj school – prodigal little sister in tow – and the headmistress announces you as the first ‘True Knot’ in their sorting ceremony in 43 years and tells the student body, _“Being chosen by all four statues is a great and rare honor,”_ and that, “ _Many Knots have gone on to do great things,”_ she isn’t lying, _per se_ . Being a True Knot _is_ a rare honor. And, historically, most _do_ go on to do something great. But she’s leaving out key information.

Like fact that you will never, _ever_ feel like you truly belong in the house you chose. How you’ll forever have to listen to people’s ideas about who you are as a person, where you _really_ should have gone, and why you are or aren’t a real Horn-puk-thunder-whatever-pus. She isn’t preparing you for how you will never stop second-guessing yourself or comparing yourself to everyone around you; how all of this will constantly weigh on you and ultimately leave you feeling out of step with every other student in that godforsaken school.

Instead, she only tells you the pretty half of the truth. The half that makes you feel good.

If you can remember that these lies aren’t usually intentionally setting you up for failure, you can forgive them. But sometimes these half-truths and believed-lies do a lot more damage than a lack of intention can excuse, and that’s okay, too.

These are the lies we’ve all dealt with. We’ve all been appeased, told things that aren’t true, and just kept in the dark. But that letter revealed another kind of lie. One I’d never even dreamed of experiencing.

If you’re lucky, you might never have to deal with this kind of lie. Or if you do, maybe the one who orchestrated it will one day sit you down and explain themselves to you. Or maybe you live in this lie right now, don’t know it, and will _never_ know it. In any case, I envy you.

These lies are deep-rooted and span over many years. They touch every aspect of your life. Everything you think you know about who you are, where you came from, and where you’re going gets wrapped up in them.

These lies shatter your world when the truth gets uprooted. Your life turns into an unpredictable spiral. They’re the lies that teach you nothing, _nothing_ is sacred as long as the end justifies the means. Not your birthright, not the truth about your family, not even your own damn name.

When you uncover these lies, you will stare into the eyes of your mother and see only a stranger. You will feel nothing but anger and betrayal. You’ll swear to never trust anyone again for as long as you live. You will never, _ever_ forgive her for what she stole from you.

Because it turns out, you’re a Devereux — basically royalty. More than half your family was murdered by You-Know-Who, including your father and a dead twin you never knew you had. Everyone thought you were dead too. And, to top it all off, your name isn’t even Audrey.

Congratulations. Sorry you had to find out through a letter.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've had this idea for years and years and finally got the push from a dear reader from my Twilight story to actually do something with it. I'll be pulling mainly from the movie and book universes of the main Harry Potter series, though I might take some tidbits from Fantastic Beasts, Cursed Child, and/or HP video games if I feel like it works for the world I'm creating.
> 
> There are a few things I hope to explore in this fic, including the struggle to fit in when you feel like a constant outsider in your own life, how the wizarding world might handle deafness (surprise: probs not much better than real life), and what might have happened if Draco Malfoy had to actually TRY being friends with someone with wildly different worldviews than him, interact with muggles and other "lesser" folks, and maybe even confront the ideas he was raised with maybe? 
> 
> This IS an oc-centered fic though, and I am a slow writer, so please keep that in mind! Either way, thank you for giving it a chance and please leave a comment letting me know what you think so far 💕🥰💕


End file.
